


This Ain't No Party

by whatthefoucault



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Coming of Age, M/M, Teenage Rebellion, Unrequited Love, teenage!Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 00:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2170851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late afternoon, summer, 1979.  Talking Heads have just released Fear Of Music, and Phil Coulson is passing the time before dinner.  With Captain America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Ain't No Party

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to have heard Fear Of Music, but it's a good album, so you know, check it out.
> 
> I don't normally write coming-of-age sexual awakening type stuff, or teenage things in general, but the muse demanded it. I apologise in advance.

"Phillip, are you decent?"

"Just give me a minute, mom!" Phil started, jumping to his feet. He took a desperate last draw of his Marlboro before flicking the end out of the window, dissipating the smoke as best he could with a frantic wave of his hands. "Come in!"

His mother regarded him sternly from the doorway.

"Jeez honey, it wouldn't kill you to clean every once in a while," she admonished him. "And if I catch you smoking in here again, you know we're going to have to have a serious talk."

"I wouldn't dream of it, _mother_ ," he said, with his politest, most courteous smile. She sighed.

"Fine," she said. "Dinner's in an hour, and it's meatloaf and green beans, and if you play your cards right, I think there just might be a pudding cloud in the fridge with your name on it."

"Thanks, mom," he said, rolling his eyes. The good old pudding cloud, he thought. It was no more than a blob of heavily-set Jell-o chocolate pudding heaped atop a swirl of Cool Whip arranged in one of his mother's good crystal dessert glasses, but as if he was about to say no to a parentally-approved sugar bomb, as woefully uncool as it may have been. He allowed his thoughts return to his afternoon ruminations as his mother departed for the kitchen, and he put another record on.

He relished the click, hiss, and static that came with setting the needle onto a new side, the promise of a warm riff, a thundering roll of drums, a clatter, a shout, or a smouldering fade-in. His mother had not made meatloaf in weeks. He did not relish the prospect of his mother's meatloaf. It was moist and went well enough with ketchup and some kind of grey vegetable on the side, but she always burnt the onions. He wanted to suggest that it was a bit punk rock of her, but God forbid anyone grant his mother punk street cred. His own, what little it was he might have had, would vanish in a puff of humiliation.

He cast his eyes about the room, over the piles of books, some real vintage stuff, perched on piles of records, holding up piles of laundry he probably ought to put in to be washed, but might get lazy and squeeze another wear out of, lest he find himself on Saturday night with nothing but flared jeans at his disposal.

His collection, unlike much of the room, was pristine. Those cards were in near-mint condition, most of them, and one of these days, he was determined to get a full set. Above them, just opposite the bed, where he could look on with quiet awe first thing in the morning and just before falling asleep, hung his poster of Captain America, now radiant in the golden glow of late afternoon light: good old Steve Rogers, who gazed out with a look of warmth and determination, his shield glistening and his uniform bright and perfect. He was beautiful. The erratic clanging and emphatic strains of the Talking Heads filled the room, and Phil's mind turned again to Captain America. As he leaned back against his pillows, he thought of Captain America running to the rescue, Captain America fighting injustice wherever he found it, Captain America wiping the sweat from his brow after a hard fight. He thought of Captain America slowly setting down his shield, taking off his mask, and smiling at Phil with those blue eyes.

He thought of Captain America's hands, strong and skilled, stroking the back of his neck, sliding under the front of his weatherbeaten tshirt, as his own hand found its way past the tight waistband of his jeans, popping open the button with a flick of his thumb. He thought of the buzz of anticipation and the shifting of the mattress as Captain America leaned into him, and the warmth of his soft breath before he pressed their lips together. He thought of the taste of Captain America's skin, and the scent of leather and clean soap, with just a hint of apple pie. He thought of the uniform tossed into a corner, and of Captain America laid bare beside him. He thought of a tangle of arms and legs, of a hard cock pressing against his thigh, and of the gasp rising from Captain America's throat at his hand closing around it. He thought of quiet words, a swear and a promise, and Captain America whispering his name. He thought of Captain America's face as he came, spilling over their bellies, out of breath, smiling.

He thought of the sound of Captain America's heartbeat as they lay together, and the gentle rumble of his chest as he hummed in post-orgasmic joy. He thought of the two of them drifting together into sleep as he wiped the mess from his belly with an old shirt that had been destined for the laundry anyway, and pulled another Marlboro from the pack he had hidden beneath the pillow.

Yeah, he thought, shaking his head. As if Captain America of all people went with guys, let alone a little nobody like him. Forget it. But that was what fantasies were for, surely: there was no sense wasting perfectly good come imagining somebody like Maureen Fitch from chemistry class, even if their breakup had totally been mutual. Maureen Fitch with her glistening braces and soft skin, with that one freckle just under the corner of her left eye, with her flared jeans that were always a good two sizes too big, and who would never have let them get past second base anyway, even if he had asked. Maureen Fitch, who thought that Phil Coulson's Captain America poster was corny. She had terrible taste in music too. It was for the best. He leaned bonelessly out the window, still reeling from the runaway train of thoughts that always happened just after he came, and lit the cigarette that dangled from his tired lips. He wondered whether Captain America would have liked Talking Heads, but that was such a stupid question. He could smell meatloaf coming from the kitchen. His mother would call for him soon. He turned to the poster on his wall.

"Thanks, Cap," he said, shimmying back into his jeans. "I hope it was good for you too."


End file.
